


a tale of two heroes

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Post-Blight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blight is ended, but sad hearts unmended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a tale of two heroes

**i.**

The dour commander and the vibrant young sorceress.  
There were whole books written about them.  
In all of them, the stout-hearted commander is the one who saves the day.

It is a good thing he always knew that life and the people who lived it were nothing like the novels.

**ii.**

He used to dream of Ostagar, of the festering frustrated fury in his heart that hardened it and caused him to turn away. He used to dream of being consumed by the flames, drowned in the blood; retribution, the only kind he could imagine.

Now he dreams again of Maric, of Rowan, how they used to be,  
but now their faces have faded away.

**iii.**

She groans, breathes in sharply, winces, her once doll-like face contorted in pain, whenever she does anything, but especially when she looks in the mirror.  
Walking is an ordeal, eating is a nightmare, but none of that compares to the heart-wrenching sense of loss she feels when she touches the skin burnt and warped by dragonfire, wounds that her magic would not fix.

"You should have left me to die."

"Have I not done enough of that already?"

**iv.**

"I am supposed to hate you."

"You should."

"Well, it’s kind of weird, but I… I _don’t.”_

"There will be plenty of time."

**v.**

She curses like an Antivan and burns hotter than a rage demon’s core. She punches him when he tries to bathe her, claws at the poultices he applies, spits out food and shreds the pillows.

Her eyes spark and flare, her lip curls, her hands are talons and her teeth are fangs, and that is when he knows life isn’t done with her just yet.

**vi.**

"You’re great. You’re really… great."  
She shifts around under the sheets, smiles drowsily at him, but it’s not sleepiness that is in her gaze when she turns it on him.

"You should get some sleep."

"Haven’t I done enough of that?"  
She smiles wider, but feels the tug of burned and still-healing flesh, and the smile withers like a flower in darkness.  
"I get it. I’m ugly now. You don’t look at me because I’m ugly."

"That’s not true."

"Have you ever called me by name? I’ve only heard you call me Warden. And you haven’t called me _anything_ since I woke up.”  
She is growing hysterical. He grows still and quiet, waiting for the storm to pass.

"Forget it. Forget it."

He leaves before her crying becomes audible.

**vii.**

He tries to eat that night, but his throat won’t open to accept the food.

**viii.**

"Oh, right. I forgot, you don’t have feelings."  
"You’re colder than a frost spell on a Wintermarch morning."  
"So if golems are people who got put into stone, are you a golem who got put into flesh?"

He collects these, remembers them, and one day he sits down at her bedside and looks her in the eye.  
"Can you tell me why I hate Orlais?"

"How should I know why you—"

"Have you ever _asked_ me?”

She is quiet; sullen, but chagrined.

"Hate is not the opposite of love. Hate is borne _of_ love. A mabari hates his human companion’s enemy because he loves his companion. A widow hates the murderer because she loves her husband.”

She stares at him, still sullen, but softening.  
"Okay, so you hate Orlais because you love… Ferelden?"

"We’ll say that for the sake of simplicity, yes.  
Just keep that in mind. _Zion.”_

**ix.**

The next time she cries, he does not leave the room, even though he feels like he will suffocate.

He starts forward, stalls, his hand half-raised, his expression blank as his mind runs a mile a minute, running through his options, the appropriateness of them, the possible outcomes—

She half-turns, sees him still standing there, little-boy-lost, small and human in his plainclothes, small and human in his uncertainty, and she flings — legitimately _flings,_ like a novelised heroine — herself into an embrace he didn’t know he was prepared to give.

What is being a war hero, in comparison to being a careworn man?  
What is being a Grey Warden, in comparison to being a lovelorn woman?

**x.**

She is softer than he’d have imagined.  
He is more uncertain of himself than she’d have imagined.

She kisses him with fluttering hands and fluttering heart.  
He tries to hold her with care, but he cares too much, and holds her tightly, sometimes too tightly.

She is afraid she is deformed.  
He is afraid he is past his prime.

"I’m not very … good at this," she says haltingly.  
He doesn’t mention how long it’s been.

"I’m not crying, I swear," she lies, when they’re finished.  
He kisses her shoulder and draws her close, in case she is.

**xi.**

"I am done with hatred. It has poisoned me, and I do not wish to spend my last years of life being poisoned by it.

But if you had never opened your eyes again, I would have hated the Archdemon until the day I died.”


End file.
